


Don't judge a Guy by his Underwear

by Niitza



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crack, F/M, Fluff, M/M, Misunderstandings, More Fluff, Prank War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-18
Updated: 2014-10-18
Packaged: 2018-02-21 16:56:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2475593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Niitza/pseuds/Niitza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It started with a prank war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't judge a Guy by his Underwear

It started, like so many things in Dean and Sam's existence, with a prank war—probably because Dean never needed any reason to start one, aside from boredom or finding his little brother annoying and in need of being brought down a peg or two. Once the first spark had been lit, it wasn't hard to get the fire going; all Dean needed to do was launch a first attack strong enough that Sam would feel like he _had_ to retaliate, but not too strong, so as to avoid using too much ammunition right from the start.

This time however, the conflict was made all the more challenging by the presence of Jess. It was necessary for her not to notice anything, as she would undoubtedly play the part of a third but much more powerful country that'd demand a ceasefire—and obtain it at once, because Sam was whipped and Dean didn't want to lose the right to camp on their couch, which he was shamelessly exploiting to gain access to sleep for the time being.

Fortunately, the Winchesters were unexpectedly good at being discreet when it mattered. They'd been going at it for over a week and still Jess hadn't cottoned on.

At the same time, her asshole boss had been piling up work on her on virtue of her being new, right out of school and therefore liable to be exploited in the name of gaining experience.

Anyway, Dean, ever the playful mouse when the cat was away, was all for taking advantage of the situation, especially since he'd come up with a scheme that had good chances of making him the winner of this thing, complete with bragging rights. It was a complicated one too.

The first step was a trip to Walmart, where he bought the cheapest, brightest red panties he could find. Far from glaring at him like he was a pervert—like he'd expected—the cashier smiled and told him his girlfriend was lucky to have him for such emergencies. People were weird.

The second step was to test his newly acquired weapon with hot water and a little bit of soap to see if—ah, yeah, wow, would the color run in the wash. Perfect.

The third step was to find the box of washing powder and take the dosage cup from it.

The fourth step was to wait until Sam gathered his boring undies and the parachutes he called t-shirts—all white, all to be washed very separately from Jess' far more delicate and colorful clothes—and brought them down to the laundry room in the building's basement. When that happened Dean put the cup in a very obvious position on the bathroom shelf and followed his brother at a distance. He hid behind the door to the laundry room, which opened outwards, and listened as Sam loaded the machine, seized the powder box and found the dosage cup missing.

Several accidents in the past—which had all ended with laundry machines frothing like enraged dogs and lots of tears—had made Sam sort of maniac when it came to putting the exact right amount of powder in the wash. He _needed_ the cup to avoid further cataclysms. So when he saw it missing, he left the room at once to go fetch it upstairs, as Dean had known he would.

As soon as Gigantor had disappeared up the stairs—since the elevator was broken—Dean came out of hiding and darted into the room. He reopened the machine, checked the content, concluded it was the right one when he found one pair of ugly ass grandpa boxer shorts and put the panties he bought—three for the price of two!—inside, making sure they were hidden before closing the round door again.

It barely took half a minute. He was out and back in his hiding spot when Sam came back, holding the dosage cup like it was the Holy Grail. Dean waited again until he was finished and had left to come out too. And instead of going back up to the apartment at once, he went to buy some donuts so his momentary absence wouldn't look suspicious.

Sam vaulted over the couch when he smelled them, a hound picking up a trail, but paused when Dean ceded one of the pastries at once and without protest. He warily sniffed it, probably expecting it to have been doused in salt or spices. Dean pretended not to notice and turned away, but that was to hide his evil smirk.

The kid wouldn't know what hit him.

 

*

 

A couple of hours later, Sam came back up from the laundry room with his load—every single item white as snow.

It took a lot out of Dean not to gape or stare or give anything away.

Sam disappeared into his room with his clothes and Dean—discreetly—hurtled down the stairs to investigate.

He found the panties on top of the machine in which he'd put them, all three of them carefully folded and piled. He squinted at them. They'd definitely been washed and were definitely less bright than when he'd bought them.

Two explanations came to mind.

One, despite all appearances, the dye hadn't dissolved in the water to spread to the rest of the load. Yet the panties had been found. If Sam had been the one doing the finding, there was no doubt he would've made the connection to Dean at once and would've come back with them to gloat over his older brother about one spectacularly failed prank that made him the winner of the war.

Maybe he was waiting for Dean to come back up.

Or, second explanation, the whites with which Dean had put the panties somehow hadn't been Sam's but someone else's, who now had pink _everything_.

Since Sam didn't dissolve into mocking brays of laughter when Dean reentered the apartment, Dean had no choice but to conclude that the second explanation was the right one.

Oops.

 

*

 

In the following days, Dean felt bad.

If there was one sacred rule to his and Sam's wars, it was that they should never have any collateral damage. The only exception was people who knowingly and willingly helped one of the parties. These were fair game. Innocent bystanders unfortunate enough to live in the vicinity of a Winchester, though? Not to much.

Thing was, Dean couldn't very well go around checking the underwear of everyone in the building to know whom he'd wronged. From what he'd seen he felt safe in assuming that the victim was male, not too small since the sample he'd glimpsed had been deemed big enough to make room for Sam's… Sam. So the load probably hadn't belonged to, say, the tiny grandpa living on the ground floor.

Please let it not be the property of the creepy dude on the third landing. Dean did _not_ need that mental picture (and scarring).

The mystery solved itself a couple mornings later, though. As had been his habit since he'd started squatting on Sam and Jess' couch, Dean was sitting on their tiny balcony, squeezed between the small table and the railing but determined to drink his coffee outside since this was California and he _could_ , dammit. Even though it was october. He was enjoying the warm brush of sunlight on his skin when he heard familiar, regular footsteps and glanced down to see Running Hottie slow down and turn to follow the short path leading up to the building.

A word on Running Hottie: first of all, the nickname was _not_ from Dean. It had _definitely_ been coined by Jess and Dean had simply adopted it because he had no idea who the guy was and he was confident enough in his own virility and sexuality to admit that, yes, the guy was hot. If you were into guys, that is. And liked the look a healthy one got when he came back from a run, his dark hair sticking out in every direction, his sweat-soaked t-shirt clinging to his chest and a flush high on his cheeks that made his dark blue eyes stand out something fierce. Once Dean had been stepping out right as the guy had been coming in and, having been raised right, he'd held the door for him. The guy had smiled, and it had made Dean's heart go all-

Anyway. Point was, the guy went on a run every Thursday morning, regular as clockwork, always in the same boring gear of worn grey shoes, dark blue shorts and white t-shirt.

Only this time the white t-shirt was kind of… pink.

Dean was still staring down at the sidewalk long after the guy had disappeared inside.

Crap.

 

*

 

So now Dean knew.

It didn't make things better.

Who would have though that Running Hottie would wear huge ugly grandpa white underwear? Not Dean, that's for sure. Not that Dean had ever thought about Running Hottie's underwear. Proof: he had not seen that one coming.

The guy hadn't seemed bothered by the fact that his running t-shirt had turned pink. He had, after all, been wearing it for all the neighborhood to see.

But maybe he hadn't had a choice. Maybe it was his only t-shirt and he had neither the time nor the money to replace it just like that. The building was kind of crappy, after all, the small two-bedroom apartment being all Jess and Sam could afford on Jess' starting salary while Sam finished school. The people living here were far from rolling in money.

Or maybe it was the guy's favorite shirt, maybe it had some sort of sentimental value and Dean had gone and ruined it, because that's what Dean did.

In any case, Dean had to apologize. And make it up to him.

But it would have to be anonymous, because Dean and Running Hottie had gone off the right foot when they'd crossed path that morning, and Dean didn't want that good first impression or the general nice neighborly atmosphere of the building ruined by one of the inhabitants knowing that Sam Winchester's brother was nothing but an immature, rude stupid loser who ruined everything he touched.

There were a few things he was good at not ruining, though: Sam (apparently), his car, cooking—and, more specifically, baking apology pies.

See, he'd had a lot of practice over the years.

He set to work at once.

 

*

 

Castiel was reading, squinting at the cramped lines in the crappy light of his crappy lamp, when he heard a knock on the door. He called out to inform his unknown visitor that he was coming, but finished the paragraph before he stood up and went to open.

There was no one on the other side. Whoever it had been apparently hadn't been willing to wait even a minute.

People were so impatient these days, Castiel thought with some peevishness and a frown.

He prepared to close the door but then noticed the box sitting right in the center of his bee pattern doormat. Suspicious, he squinted down at it. There was a note. He crouched down to pick the package up. It was moderately heavy and… warm? And smelling of sugar?

_In thanks for finding my panties_ , he read in a writing trying and failing not to be too messy while he closed the door behind him. It creaked and stuck a bit, he had to force it closed with his shoulder. _Sorry about the damage on your whites, though. Please accept this as an apology?_

Castiel was a bit baffled. Up until now he'd thought that what had happened to his load had been yet another prank from Gabriel. Although now that he thought about it, his cousin hadn't come to gloat over him. And, Castiel remembered, he was supposed to be out of the country.

So it had been an accident?

He set the box down and carefully opened it. Inside, he found a pie. A beautiful and, if the smell was anything to go by, delicious pie.

Which was definitely better than the can of beans he'd thought would make up his dinner that night.

With a small smile on his lips, he fetched a knife, a fork, a plate and sat down at his narrow, rickety table. He cut himself a generous slice, brought the first bite to his mouth.

He let out an involuntary sound of delighted surprise, closed his eyes to savor the taste.

It was like falling in love just a little bit.

 

*

 

The pie lasted a day and a half—and in that time made up most of Castiel's meals. Once it was—sadly—finished, the man found himself confronted to a dilemma. Surely a whole succulent pie had been much more than what his folding the panties he'd found in his laundry had warranted. After all, he could've checked the drum beforehand and thus avoided making them lose half their color. Plus, having been left on top of the machine, they could've been stolen.

In short, Castiel felt like he owed the pie maker some thanks.

The question was: who was this pie maker?

Castiel proceeded by elimination. Given the type of underwear, he thought the following day while he checked his mailbox, he felt safe to assume that they belonged to one of the building's female inhabitants. The style (and his own hopes) made him rule out Mrs. Gen, the little old lady on the second floor. Going from the size they probably didn't belong to the round girl occupying the small flat underneath his room, on the fourth floor, either. Apart from them…

"Hey, Castiel."

Castiel startled, his mail nearly slipping from his fingers, and turned. He relaxed when he recognized Jessica Moore, the young woman living on the second floor with her boyfriend. Jessica was nice. She always had time to chat, but never lingered for too long, somehow always sensing when the smalltalk got to be too much for him. She was the perfect neighbor beside whom to climb the stairs—as the elevator was still broken—until she reached her floor. There she waved goodbye and disappeared inside her flat.

Castiel started ascending the following flight of stairs. But then his thoughts returned to his previous reflexions and he… froze. He glanced back over his shoulder.

He felt himself redden to the tip of his ears.

Oh. Oh no.

 

*

 

This made for a very awkward situation.

But it didn't change the fact that Castiel wanted to thank Jessica for the amazing pie she'd made and offered him. It just had to be firmly friendly and neutral. Jessica had a boyfriend—whom Castiel had noticed because it would've been hard not to, the man in question took up a lot of space—and the last thing Castiel wanted was for his gratitude to be taken as a flirtation, out of respect for the young woman and for the sake of their almost friendship.

In the end, he settled for a jar of honey from the farm for which he volunteered on weekends and whenever he had a holiday—which wasn't as often as he'd like, since his superior, Mr. Adler, was far from generous with them. Castiel would've loved to spend more time there, helping fight ivy and take care of the bees, but the struggling little farm had no openings for a paying job right now. And if it had, it probably wouldn't hire _him_ , an amateur. And he had to pay the bills somehow. It didn't mean he had to like the job in question.

(In truth he disliked it, disliked accounting, but it had more to do with his superiors than with the work itself.)

That weekend, he made sure to leave the farm with a jar of honey. Now all that was left was to bring it down to the second floor.

He _could_ do this.

 

*

 

Not two minutes had passed since Sam had left in a hurry to buy some sugar and already there was a knock at the door—because of course the brat would forget his keys in his haste to get the missing key ingredient for pie.

Dean rolled his eyes, profoundly unsurprised. Ever since the so-called "blackberry pie mystery"—the pie having been made but having disappeared without Sam being allowed to have a taste—Dean's little brother had been throwing a near-constant tantrum in the form of nagging and puppy dog's eyes for a pastry he would be allowed to eat.

It had taken Dean a week to cave in—because Jess, while calling Sam a child, had also hinted at the fact that she wouldn't mind something sweet and because Dean, when he stepped into a kitchen to cook, had the natural and somewhat inevitable tendency to end up baking instead. For instance: every time he tried to experiment, cook something new without a receipt, he always ended up with something involving dough and looking a whole lot like pie.

So sue him.

But yeah, it wasn't like it was a hardship for him to bake one—as long as he had the right ingredients. Which, apparently, Sam and Jess weren't even able to have, the useless suckers.

But at least Sam had been swift to make up for it.

Except that when Dean opened the door, it wasn't his giant little brother he found on the other side. No, it was Running Hottie, looking like a deer caught in headlights, clutching something against his chest like a very small, very useless shield.

Dean was suddenly extremely aware of the state he was in, covered in flour from when he'd made the dough, some of it still sticking on his hands, hair full of butter.

Never let it be said that Dean Winchester baked cleanly.

"Um, hi?" he managed to say, trying to ignore his piteous state. "You need anything?"

The guy opened and closed his mouth several times before he blurted: "Bees!"

Dean blinked. "What?"

"Bees," the guy repeated, mortified red creeping up his cheeks. He swallowed. "At the farm. I volunteer at the farm." He noticed Dean puzzled raise of eyebrows and his shoulders slumped. He briefly closed his eyes and breathed out before starting over. "I mean, we have bees at the farm, and sometime they make too much honey, more than we can sell, so I thought I could share some of it with my neighbors."

He thrusted what he was holding forward. It turned out to be a jar of, well, yes, honey, with a poorly tied bow on top. Before Dean could move Jess came out of her room.

"Who's that, Dean?" she asked as she joined him at the door. "Oh. Hey, Castiel."

"Jessica," Running Hottie said, now calmer. "Hello."

"Everything okay?"

"Yes," he replied. "I was bringing a jar of honey as th-" With a sudden glance in Dean's direction he stopped. Cheeks flushing again, he cleared his throat. "I thought you might enjoy it."

"We certainly will, thanks," Jess said with one of her nice and easy smiles. She picked the jar up and turned it in her hands, reading the label. "Hey, Dean," she added. "You might even use it for your pie."

Dean realized that he'd been staring at the blush still high on Running Hottie's (Castiel's, apparently) cheeks and quickly looked away.

"What? Oh, right. Right!" he repeated when what she'd said registered. "Actually, I probably should do it now before the milk cools too much."

With that he snatched the jar and fled, taking refuge in the safe haven that was the kitchen.

 

*

 

"Why don't you come in?" Jess said once Dean had disappeared. Castiel tensed slightly, his shoulders hunching in discomfort.

"Oh, no, I wouldn't want to intrude," he started.

Jess refrained from rolling her eyes. She was aware of how difficult social interactions could be for Castiel, but she refused to let it pass when his reluctance was based on false assumptions.

"You won't, I'm inviting you in," she said. "Dean's making pie, with your honey it seems. The least we can do as thanks would be to let you have a taste of the result. Plus," she added conspiratorially. "You'd be doing us a service, honest. Not that the pie will be bad, much to the contrary. That's the problem. Since he took over our couch I must've put on five pounds at least. His cooking is that good."

"Oh, so he cooks often?" Castiel asked as he let her usher him inside and direct him towards the couch.

"Yeah, he likes it, he's good at it—contrary to me and Sam—and he has to gain his keep _somehow_." She let her voice rise towards the end, the words half addressed to Dean. The man didn't retort like he usually would have, which was strange, but maybe for the best, since Castiel still looked like he was one loud noise away from fleeing like a scared cat. He was, for some reason, very red in the face.

It only worsened when a sudden, nearly orgasmic moan came out of the kitchen.

"Oh my God," Dean whimpered. A second later he leaned through the open door, a spoon sticking out of his mouth. "I don't know what you give your bees, man," he said around it, barely understandable. "But keep it up, that's some honey you have here. Damn."

"Oh," Castiel said, like the breath had been knocked out of him. "Thank you."

Dean disappeared again and Castiel turned back towards Jess, a small but giddy smile tugging at his lips, the flush on his cheeks now quietly pleased.

Jess paused, glanced from Castiel's face to the kitchen door and back. _Uh oh_.

"So, how're you doing?" she asked, a wide smile taking over her face.

How Castiel was doing was the usual: he only talked about what was happening at the farm where he volunteered, which meant that his work was still soul-sucking, his superiors still dicks and the pay still insufficient to make up for it. Jess always itched to suggest him to quit but she knew things weren't that easy, especially not in this economy.

Instead she let her neighbor talk about the new hive he'd helped Mr. Knight, the farm's bee keeper, set up, since it was the best way for him to relax. Unfortunately, just as he was settling more comfortably into the couch cushions, Sam barreled through the door like a mammoth into a China shop, making him tense all over again.

Jess couldn't bit back a sigh.

"Got the sugar!" Sam announced brightly, toeing off his shoes.

"Too late, bitch," Dean mercilessly retorted.

Sam's large grin reversed itself into a frown as he stalked to the kitchen. "What? Why, what did you do?"

"Nothing, it's just that some people are a lot better than you at bringing us what we need in a timely fashion," Dean snarked.

"It's not my fault!" Sam protested. "The shop was closed, I had to walk six blocks, of course it took time. What did you- Oh, is that honey? Can I ha- Ow! What the hell, Dean?"

"Paws off, you mutt!" Dean said, accompanied by a second whack of what sounded like a wooden spoon. A second later Sam was unceremoniously shoved out of the kitchen, his older brother holding him by the back of his shirt to dump him out of the door. Sam stumbled, flailed a bit but managed to right himself. He crossed his arms haughtily. "Jerk," he mumbled.

"Sam, look who's here," Jess said, trying to distract him. She was firmly on Dean's side right now: Sam was nothing but a parasite in the kitchen, always picking at the food while being entirely unhelpful and even, given his size, a serious hinder. He'd been the cause for many a failed dish in the past.

"Who's that?" he asked as he stepped closer, noticing Castiel for the first time—because he was many things, but observant was not one of them.

This time Jess did roll her eyes and made introductions. The conversation started stiffly, but as soon as the topic of farming came up Sam perked up, thrilled to hear about Castiel's volunteering work and eager to ask a boatload of questions. Soon he was asking if they did something like CSA baskets and if there was enough for another subscriber—there was and, faced with Sam's enthusiasm, Castiel left briefly to go fetch the forms in his apartment.

At that moment Dean came out of the kitchen, announcing that the pie was in the oven. He stopped when he saw that Castiel had disappeared.

"He left?" he asked, and was that _disappointment_ Jess was hearing in his voice? She was quick to reassure him and this time was sure that the expression on his face was one of happy relief.

_Uh oh_ , again.

When Castiel came back, Sam dove on the forms too fill them, as excited about eco vegetables as a puppy with a rubber ball. Dean had settled on the armchair, so Jess made sure that Castiel sat back on the side of the couch nearest to it to encourage an exchange between the two. Unfortunately, once the introductions were made, both men managed little more than a stilted attempt at conversation before Dean cowardly retreated back to the kitchen on the pretext of checking on the pie—even though it hadn't been in the oven for more than ten minutes.

What's worse, instead of seeing him come back afterwards, Jess heard the distinct sounds of his starting to clean the utensils he'd used.

Now there was one thing to know about Dean: he cooked and baked, yes, he didn't mind doing it at all. But it was implied that when he did, it meant that he wouldn't be the one to do the dishes, which were left for Jess and Sam—Sam cleaning and Jess drying because letting Sam and his large paws try to dry was begging for a good reason to buy a whole new set of plates and glasses.

This time Dean did everything himself and proceeded to clean the counter and more or less everything, just so he had an excuse to stay in the kitchen until the pie was done.

Unbelievable.

 

*

 

The crust looked exactly the same as the one of the pie Castiel had found on his doorstep. It tasted the same, too, one bite enough for him to know with absolute certainty that the person who'd made this pie was the same as the one who'd baked the other. So, it was, had been, Dean.

Which… didn't solve the situation. For one, Dean wasn't aware of the actual purpose of the honey jar. Also, it raised a question, namely about the red panties. Unless…

The unwanted image Castiel's mind unexpectedly came up with made him flush and he hastily covered it up with a far more logical explanation: Dean had a girlfriend, to whom the panties belonged. Because of course Dean had a girlfriend. There was just no way that such a man—handsome, nice and, apparently, able to cook—was single. Castiel had known this from the second he had first seen him, one morning after his weekly run. Dean had held the door for him as he'd come in, a real gentleman with a crooked smile and a golden crown set on his head by the early sunlight, enhancing the green of his eyes.

Of course when that had happened Castiel himself had been nothing but a sweaty, sticky, stinky mess, red in the face and out of breath, and yet his rapidly beating heart had found a way to pick up again and-

Anyway. Dean had to be taken. It was probably a law of the universe. From what Jess had told him while the pie was baking, up until now he'd mostly been drifting around the United States, driving from state to state in the car he'd inherited from his father, enjoying the road and only stopping from time to time to work some random jobs in order to make some money before he was gone again. But now he felt like a change, he felt like settling down a bit, living near his brother in the wake of their father's death. He was looking for a job and a place to live.

Privately Castiel thought he'd probably met someone too, which would've counted as another incentive.

"This is _so_ good," Jess said, closing her eyes after the first mouthful of pie and humming.

"It's awesome," Sam agreed blissfully, talking with his mouth full. He was already on his second slice, having wolfed down the first one like he hadn't eaten in days.

Dean grimaced at the crumbs spewing out of his brother's mouth, reflecting Castiel's feelings. "Just so you know, you don't get to talk to me about the way I eat again, ever," he said.

Castiel swallowed his latest bite before he added his own input, stating that the pie was one of the best he remembered eating. Dean smiled at him, but something about it felt forced.

Castiel turned it in his head until after the pie was finished—almost half of it eaten by Sam, who was now lying on the couch with his head in Jess' lap, nearly knocked out. When Dean accompanied him to the door, he screwed up his courage and pointed out that this day's pie only ranked as one of the best he'd eaten because the definite best one had been the blackberry pie Dean had offered him the week before.

He wasn't brave enough to wait for Dean's reaction and left before the man could answer.

 

*

 

Dean stared after Castiel, frozen on the spot.

Because Castiel knew.

About the pie.

About the _panties_.

And given the wording of the note Dean had left with the pie, Castiel probably thought that said panties belonged to him. Which, okay, they did, he'd been the one to buy them, but not like-

Crap.

Crap.

_Crap_.

 

*

 

Castiel didn't see Dean at all in the following weeks. Not that it was unusual—he hadn't been aware the man actually lived in the building before they'd been formally introduced and it wasn't like he spent his time lingering on the landing and spying on the neighbors like Mrs. Gen pretended she didn't. But he crossed path with Sam once, with Jessica thrice, so he couldn't help but find it a bit strange that Dean seemed to have disappeared.

Unless he _had_ , unless he had changed his mind about settling down, unless he had left and Castiel would never see him again.

Castiel couldn't help but feel a bit heartbroken about that. Over pie they had talked a bit, and Dean had been nice. He hadn't been secretive about the receipt he'd used like some paranoid people were, he had listened with interest while Castiel had talked about the ways to harvest honey without ending up in the hospital looking like an attempt to turn a human being into a balloon.

As a consequence, not seeing Dean at all preoccupied him. It had a bad impact on his work—as shown by that time he was summoned to Naomi's office—and his volunteering—as shown by the worried looks Anna, the farm owner, kept throwing him whenever she saw him. Therefore he concluded it would be best for him to ask, just to be sure. Just to be able to close that chapter and put it away with all the near misses his life seemed filled with sometimes.

It took him a while but he finally came up with a reason to come knock on Sam and Jess' door: he would ask them if they still had honey and tell them that since the farm often overproduced—which was a lie; Cain was good, but not that good—they only needed to ask and he would bring more. And he would take advantage of that conversation starter to ask about them and, incidentally, about Dean.

It was a sound plan, Castiel judged. But as always when he carefully planned an interaction beforehand to reassure himself, nothing happened like it was meant to. As it was, when he arrived on the landing of the second floor, Sam and Jess were stepping out of their apartment, ready to go out. Catching sight of him, frozen on the second to last step, Jess smiled.

"Hey, Castiel."

"Hello."

"We're going to see Dean at his new job," she said. "Hey, do you want to come with us?"

Castiel frowned in puzzlement. Jess explained:

"He got a job at a bar not ten minutes from here, so we thought we'd come say hi."

"Oh." The offer caught him off-guard and he nervously tightened his hold on the banister. But he refrained from reflexively refusing; he owed it to Jess to at least think about it. To weigh the evening he'd planned—to be spent alone, watching series on his crappy laptop—against the perspective of seeing Dean again, albeit in an unfamiliar, probably crowded environment. He took a fortifying breath.

"… Let me go get my coat."

 

*

 

The name of the bar was The Roadhouse.

Dean was behind the counter when they arrived, although Castiel had been informed on the way there that he spent half his time in the kitchens, especially around midday and six o'clock, helping making burgers and other classic food the bar offered for meals. It didn't take him long to spot Sam's abnormally huge frame and he waved them over. When he caught sight of Castiel though, he briefly froze, but smiled.

"Hey, Cas," he said, if a bit stiffly.

Castiel tried not to let it make him feel unwelcome and followed Sam and Jess when Dean shooed them away towards a booth once they'd ordered, telling them he would bring them their drinks soon.

Since he was working, he couldn't stay long when he did, but he took the time to ask how they were doing and to chat a bit with Castiel himself. Castiel couldn't help but stare after him when the man returned to the bar, where he switched place with a blond girl who elbowed him on the way, teasing and familiar.

He remembered his thoughts about the reasons Dean might have had to stay around, remembered the red panties and their possible owner, and hastily looked away. He did _not_ want to know, or even wonder.

He returned to the conversation that had started between Sam and Jess. Yet despite the efforts they made to try and include him in the conversation, he found there wasn't much he could add to it. The both of them had been together for years now, and they were still very much in love. Their current busy schedule—with Jess starting her career and Sam facing exams with heavy implications in his last year of grad school—meant that they didn't have as much time as they'd like to be together. This evening was a rare occasion on which they were both free, so unsurprisingly they were taking advantage of it. They spoke with the ease of people who had long known each other, with in-jokes and shared memories, goggly eyes and besotted smiles that Castiel carefully edged away from.

It wasn't unusual for him to feel left out in a conversation, but once he'd finished his drink it became uncomfortably obvious that he was a third wheel. He had the impression of intruding on something private, something that shouldn't be disturbed. And at the same time he felt a pull tugging him towards the bar he couldn't help but throw glances at from time to time.

In the end he gave in, announcing that he was going for a refill. Sam threw him a smile and a nod while Jess waved encouragingly, aware of how little he liked to talk to strangers.

Fortunately he wasn't headed towards a complete stranger. The bar was busy when he arrived, so it took him a while to catch Dean's attention and he was then told to wait a couple of minutes. He settled down on a free stool at the end of the counter, out of the way, where he wouldn't draw too much attention. For a while he looked around the bar, but spooked when he met someone's eye across the room and opted for turning towards the shelves and glasses. He started counting the number of whiskey bottles, but soon found himself distracted by Dean as he worked. His gestures were swift and assured as he moved around his smaller colleague without ever bumping against her, smooth as a dancer. It was hard to believe that he'd just started working here.

But it probably wasn't the first time he'd worked at a bar either.

He apologized when he finally brought Castiel his beer and stayed to ask what was up.

"The ceiling," was Castiel's automatic reply. He froze and ducked his head, hoping to hide behind his bottle. He didn't even have the luxury of being drunk as an excuse.  
Nervousness had always been enough.

He looked up in surprise when Dean chuckled and found him, for some reason, more relaxed than before. In that second though, another customer waved further down the counter.

"Wait a sec', okay?" Dean asked and he left without waiting for an answer.

Castiel waited—and maybe drank half his beer to try and calm himself down. It was a good thing he held his alcohol better than a seasoned Russian.

Once the customer was served Dean came back and picked up right where they'd left off. "What's up with you?" he asked so there were no ambiguities.

This time Castiel to give a sensible answer and they talked, until Dean was called away once more—and made sure Castiel would still be there when he'd dealt with the order.

The pattern repeated itself once, twice, until Castiel forgot he'd been supposed to just fetch a drink. It took Jess and Sam coming by and announcing they were going home for Castiel to realize how much time had passed. They asked if he would be okay finding his way home and he nodded.

He stayed.

To be honest, he wasn't quite sure what exactly he and Dean were talking about. He'd lost count of the amount of beers he'd drunk and, besides, their conversation kept being interrupted by Dean's work. On top of that, whatever topic they managed to broach could be dropped for another because of a short remark, like when Dean complained about a jerk thinking being a customer made him king and Castiel showed his sympathy by describing the assbutt that was his most annoying client. But then Dean abruptly banned everything work-related and they had to turn to music and movies.

He and Castiel weren't familiar with the same repertoire at all. Through his happy buzz, Castiel found it more fascinating than upsetting.

He stayed late into the night, until things slowed down to a crawl and a middle-aged woman, probably the manager, if not the owner, came by to tell Dean that he could go home. Dean didn't resist, briefly disappearing into the back to take off his apron and fetch his leather jacket. He bid his goodbyes to his colleagues before he left, holding the door for Castiel like it was a given that he'd follow.

He offered Castiel a ride home in the huge black car Jess had spoken of. Castiel accepted, feeling tired and disoriented enough to be unsure of his sense of direction. When they arrived at the entrance of his building he stumbled out, but Dean stopped him so that they could exchange phone numbers.

It took Castiel some time to fall asleep, but when he did it was with a smile.

 

*

 

Somehow, without him noticing or even knowing how it had happened, Castiel became a regular at the bar.

It took him some time to realize it. At first it was just that he preferred the homey atmosphere of the place to the cold, slightly damp emptiness of his room under the roof after a taxing day at work. But as autumn morphed into winter, such days only multiplied and he was harshly reminded of just how crappy his heating was and how little the owner, a certain Marv Tron, cared about repairs.

Although to be honest, if he'd tried to do something he probably would've made it worse.

Anyway, the Roadhouse was much more comfortable and welcoming. Soon Castiel knew the name of everyone who worked there, not only Dean but also Jo and Ellen and Ash and Benny the cook. He greeted the regulars, like old Missouri or Bobby, and knew about others he'd never seen through, well, gossip—like Victor, an FBI agent who came by twice a week for lunch. For some reason Jo had told him everything about him and how she was waiting for him to be finished with his latest big case to ask him out.

(So she _wasn't_ Dean's girlfriend.)

Castiel liked these people. They asked him how he was doing but left him alone when he retreated to his table in the corner, needing some quiet. Benny's burgers made him happy. Missouri reminded him not to mind Zachariah's petty bile—she'd never met him and Castiel had never talked about him, but somehow she _knew_. Bobby was gruff but harmless and so familiar enough with Dean that it surprised Castiel at first, until he learned that he was Dean's other boss, owner of the garage Dean worked at during the day. When Castiel had asked the bartender about it, Dean had replied that he liked to keep busy and that he enjoyed not having to choose between two things he enjoyed—cars and cooking.

Castiel approved.

By then he considered Dean a friend. A good friend. They talked, especially during Dean's breaks. Words flew easily— _everything_ came easily, with Dean, in a way it rarely did with other people. When they both had a free evening they started to meet to watch movies, as Dean had decided that Castiel not knowing the first thing about Star Trek was a crime. In return he condescended to sit through Castiel's favorite procedural cop shows and foreign movies.

And retaliated by making Castiel watch the whole ten seasons of Dr. Sexy MD.

Such evenings soon lengthened into sleepovers followed by breakfast, especially once Dean had discovered just how faulty Castiel's shower was—another crime, in his very loud opinion. After that Castiel wasn't allowed to leave after movie night without having taken a nice, warm shower at Dean's apartment.

Said apartment was little more than a room, a cave, really, the converted basement of a house. But the owner, Mrs. Mills, was honest—a police officer, even—and had made sure it was up to standards. It had all Dean needed, his words: a shower with "marvelous" water pressure, enough room for a queen bed with a memory foam mattress and a working hood in the kitchen corner. He was even allowed to park his car in the garage when the weather was bad.

He made sure that Castiel knew that he was always welcome there. Which made Castiel's situation a lot more bearable, if not entirely better. It was nice, having other people he could count on again—something he'd been deprived of when he'd been cut off from his family. It was nice to have some support and know he wasn't alone even as the situation at work came to a head.

See, there was one thing that made Castiel's work a little less awful: the fact that every morning, between ten and eleven, their intern Alfie came by his desk to bring him coffee just how he liked it and to talk about his guinea pig. The creature in question was… sensitive, to say the least. And since he'd heard that Castiel volunteered at a farm Alfie had concluded that he could and therefore should be his go-to reference every time Grace—the guinea pig—refused to eat. Which was often.

Sometimes Castiel suspected the animal to be the piggy equivalent of a drama queen.

But anyway, this counted as a highlight.

Until Alfie got fired for no apparent reason. That, combined with the disputable direction in which Naomi and Mr. Adler were taking the company, was simply unacceptable.

So Castiel quitted in protest—instead of shutting up and submitting like he had up until now.

No one stopped him.

Unfortunately, he didn't have any spared money, which meant he wasn't able to pay the rent that month. The owner jumped on the occasion to make him leave.

Assaulted by flashbacks from the time he'd been cast out of his family, back when he was in college, he packed his things and prepared to leave. He'd hoped to move away without being noticed, but Jess entered the building right as he was shuffling one of his three boxes of belongings down the stairs. The elevator was still broken.  
She frowned and asked what was happening.

Castiel had made the decision not to tell anyone about it so as not to be a bother, and because a part of him couldn't help but be ashamed. But, faced with her worried blue eyes, he felt himself falter and the whole story came out, full of indignation about how badly and unfairly Alfie had been treated. She listened without comment, perceiving that nothing she could say would help. Instead she simply assisted in bringing down the rest of his things.

Her face was full of sympathy, though. For a second Castiel feared that she would suggest for him to stay on her and Sam's couch until he sorted himself out.

She did worse: she called Dean.

The man came at once, even though it was the middle of the day and he'd probably been at work, allegedly because he had a car and it was large enough to carry Castiel's boxes to the nearest motel. Except they never made it there: as soon as he was informed of the situation, Dean protested that Castiel could come live with him. He had a couch, he said, a kick-ass mattress and clearly enough room for them to fit.

Castiel was tired—and weak. And no matter how much he tried to deny it, he didn't want to spend a night, let alone several, in a seedy motel room.

He accepted the offer.

 

*

 

The worst was, Cas wasn't even angry at his asshole ex-bosses and at his dick ex-flat owner for what they'd done to him—not only at the end but during all the time he'd been working for that crappy accounting company and renting that crappy room under the roof. It had happened, and he quietly accepted the consequences, just like that.

It made Dean feel even more justified in his being furious at these douchebags. And in doing something about it, because they sure deserved it.

He started planning as soon as Cas fell asleep, knocked out by too much pie and beer, the results of Dean's attempt to make everything better by celebrating the move. In the months he'd been living here, he had met and befriended a whole lot of people, so he barely had to think about who to call.

He didn't tell Cas.

So Cas didn't know about how his former work place suddenly lost all its computer data due to a power shortage—plus some untraceable tweaking, courtesy of Charlie, whose motorcycle he'd repaired two months ago and who had glimpsed his inner geek at once through a couple of obscure references.

Cas didn't know either about how his former flat owner thought he'd found the right student to swindle with his crappy apartment in the person of one wide-eyed, naive-looking Kevin Tran, only to realize his mistake when the boy's tiny mother came in—a specialist in hygiene and security standards—and he thus ended up with a huge trial on his ass.

No, Cas didn't know.

But Dean did. Somehow that was enough.

 

*

 

Things got better.

Castiel was thankful for Dean's help, but he refused to live with him as free loader. He insisted on paying half the rent—which meant he had to find a job.

Fortunately a spot opened at the Gas-N-Sip at the edge of town, the one situated on the road leading to the farm. Nora, the owner, knew Castiel for having seen him come in more than once, and was more than ready to offer him the job when he timidly asked.

She was a much better boss than Mr. Adler or Naomi had ever been. His performance was far from perfect, he knew, but she gave him the time to learn without putting too much pressure on him.

After a while and a third visit from the repairman she told him to stay away from the smoothie machine, though.

She didn't even mind when Dean came by to chat more than to buy anything. On the contrary, she seemed to like it, like him, watching them with a peculiar smile on her face. It only widened and softened the times Dean came to pick Castiel up at the end of a shift, as he disapproved of Castiel using public transportation.

She knew that Castiel was trying to gather some money so he could find a place and agreed to give him some babysitting hours on top of his work at the shop just so he could get there faster.

She was a good person—although her daughter was very fussy and very loud about it. Castiel felt very lucky. His eardrums less so.

He also felt very lucky with Dean. Dean who didn't judge, didn't even comment on how Castiel was, how he did things, how he sometimes kept to himself because he needed the quiet—something his family had never understood. Dean went with the flow, took him as he came. He bought earphones to listen to his music. It was pleasant, strangely freeing, not to have to watch his every gesture for fear of criticism or ridicule.

Castiel was careful to return the favor. He especially didn't comment on Dean's habit to bake pie for no reason and experiment on fillings. After all, he was a direct benefactor of the results.

It would've been enough, but then Cain announced that he was retiring—and pushed Castiel forward to be hired as a successor. Castiel could hardly believe it, and even less when Anna listened to the suggestion.

He was overwhelmed. Dean was stoked and insisted they celebrate.

"So, what do you want to do now, Mr. Successful?" he asked.

Castiel took a sip of his beer and swallowed slowly as he pondered over this. He put the bottle down and answered: "I want to buy myself a home."

Dean's smile briefly faltered, probably in confusion, before he brought his own beer to his lips. "And what would that be?" he asked after he'd swallowed half of it.

Castiel readily explained: back when he'd first moved in with Dean, Anna, hearing of his situation, had reminded him of an offer she'd made when they'd first met. Even if he'd only started to volunteer at the time, she'd told him he could live at the farm. She didn't have any extra room, but she had a large garden and orchard, and if he had something like a camping car or a minivan he could park it in a corner at any time.

Castiel had never been able to take her up on her offer but over time he'd built a sort of dream. Him, living out of his very own mobile house. He would have his bees nearby, lots of plants and eat breakfast every morning at a small folding table set outside, with the birds singing in the trees or the rain pitter-pattering on the retractable roof. He felt like he could be happy that way.

He felt like he could feel free.

 

*

 

Cas' words were a slap in the face.

And, probably, a reality check.

See, Dean loved having Cas living with him, even if the space they shared was little more than a room. It wasn't a problem for him, since he had grown up sharing motel rooms with his dad and Sam, who had both been huge.

But he hadn't thought that it probably wasn't the same for Cas. That Cas would need, would want his space.

Damn it, he knew the guy. He should've known.

If he had, then Cas reminding him that he intended to move out one day soon probably would've hurt a whole lot less.

But Dean was used to keep going no matter what. So he did what any decent friend would do in such a situation: he sucked it up and helped in the only way he could, that is to say by making sure that Cas got the best deal on the best vehicle they could find.

He had Bobby put out feelers and started accompanying Cas to car sellers. They looked at old vans and camping cars—and came back empty handed every single time, because Dean kept vetoing all the models Cas was interested in on virtue of them being all death traps and of their price not being low enough to make up for the sheer amount of repair they'd need to be inhabitable. What the hell, Dean was no idiot and he wouldn't let Cas go live in another crappy place.

He wasn't trying to delay the inevitable either.

He really wasn't.

Proof, he didn't wait to inform Cas when Bobby found something. He was wary, of course, but when Cas saw the old VW van he very obviously fell right in love in a way he hadn't with any of the other cars. And Dean wasn't that cruel. So VW van it was, even though the rims were almost rusted through.

And even though Cas clearly had no taste.

Dean and Bobby took it on themselves to repair it—Dean made sure that the AC and heater worked perfectly—and Cas insisted on paying for all of it, proud to have enough money for it after all these months.

Soon enough he was moving out of Dean's small flat and into the minivan, headed for the Milton farm where he'd park it.

Dean watched him go and tried very hard to convince himself this wasn't a goodbye.

 

*

 

It wasn't.

Dean didn't see Cas a lot over the next couple of weeks, while the guy was busy setting up his new home exactly like he'd said—with lots of plants, lots of covers on the bed, which looked more like a nest than anything, and lots of bee-themed decorations.

He hadn't mentioned the army of stray cats that soon started to frequent the place, but they mostly stayed outside, so that was okay.

But once all was said and done Cas still spent a lot of time over at Dean's. And he never minded when Dean came to see him or even slept over.

Dean had to make sure everything worked perfectly, after all.

So yeah, it was okay. It was great, actually, because Cas was clearly over the moon, proud of his small kitchen, of his small table and of his small chairs that seemed ready to crumble every time Dean sat on it. Soon Dean couldn't understand why he'd been so reluctant and sad at the thought of Cas moving out, not anymore, not when he saw Cas so clearly happy, juggling his work at the Gas-N-Sip and at the farm.

The bees, from what Dean understood, were doing well.

 

*

 

And then one morning-

One morning, Dean came out of the van's tiny, cramped shower, still half-asleep since he hadn't stayed under the spray long enough to wake up properly. But he didn't want to use up Cas' hot water. And he needed to leave for work soon.

Outside the shower he was welcomed by the smell of coffee and once he was dressed by Cas, hair a mess, handing him a whole thermos that he could take with him to the garage. It smelled heavenly and Dean felt so grateful suddenly, for this, for the nice night he'd spent in the van, listening to the crickets chirping outside like he'd never been allowed to as a kid, for Castiel himself, that he felt like he was bursting with it. It spilled out of him in a wide, helpless smile, followed by a kiss.

"Thanks," he said, taking the thermos. He walked out the door, climbed into his car, drove away.

It wasn't until he stopped at the last light before the auto shop that he realized what he'd done.

Oh, crap.

 

*

 

Cas stood frozen in the tiny kitchen of his minivan.

His lips were still buzzing.

From Dean's kiss.

Because Dean had kissed him.

Just like that.

Dean had-

Oh.

_Oh_.

He was going to be late for work.

 

*

 

Dean Winchester was no coward.

He wasn't. And he wasn't going to start being one now, no matter how dire the situation was.

So that evening he screwed up his courage, said goodbye to Bobby, nodded when the old man told him to say hi to Cas for him, put on his leather jacket like it was a suit of armor and climbed into the Impala like it was his war horse.

Cas wasn't home when he arrived—he'd probably made a detour to check on his bees—so Dean let himself in, since he had a key. He'd brought back the thermos that had started it all—or, no, it hadn't started anything, it only had spurred Dean into doing something he'd so often felt the urge or wish to do but had always refrained from doing.

Dean washed it, set it to dry on the counter and tensed, because he'd heard the door creak open behind him. He turned around to see Cas standing in doorway, frozen, hand clutching the knob.

"Hi," he managed to say, twisting the dishrag between his hands.

"Hello," Cas replied quietly, and stupidly Dean's eyes dropped to movement of his lips.

What happened then wasn't quite clear, but a second later the dishrag was out of Dean's hands and Dean himself was right in front of Cas, cradling his jaw, and they were kissing again.

They kissed for a long time, luscious and unhurried, standing in the middle of Cas' minivan with the door hanging open and all the mosquitoes in the yard probably buzzing right in, attracted by the neon lamp lit over the sink. Dean didn't care. He let out a small sound when Cas snatched his lower lip with his teeth then deepened the kiss, slipping an arm around his waist, his shoulders and pressing against him from shoulder to knee.

No, he didn't care at all.

 

*

 

A little over two weeks later, Jess and Sam came over for a barbecue, taking advantage of the last good days of summer.

Once everything was ready, Dean announced that he was going to fetch fresh drinks and took Sam with him to tell him, with no little apprehension, about him and Cas.

"Yeah, I know," Sam answered, all relaxed and unsurprised.

Dean almost asked _how_ , as he hadn't seen Sam since The Night (which deserved its capital letters and a lot more), but before he could Sam went on:

"I've known for months, actually."

Dean gaped, confused, ready to protest, before he realized-

Not much had changed since he and Cas were officially a thing. He still spent half his time at Cas', the other half at home but with Cas often coming by. They still had their movie nights. Only now there was a lot more kissing involved. And… other things.

(He wasn't entirely sure but something told him that it was only a matter of time until the red panties made a comeback. Or, well, another pair, a bit larger, because Dean had been stupid when he'd bought them for that stupid prank what felt like forever ago and hadn't thought about their many potential uses. And hey, it would be an occasion for him to buy Cas some new underwear, like, say, sexy boxers that'd display that nice butt of his and replace the old ugly grandpa white undies—not all of them, though, because Cas liked them, for some reason. Dean despaired of him and his weird taste. But that weird taste meant that, for some reason, Cas liked _him_. And Dean sure as hell didn't want Cas to change, ever.)

But he got why Sam might've gotten the wrong impression. Or, come to think of it, exactly the right one. So he said: "Oh, okay. Good."

Sam smiled at him, understanding of his brother's dissolving fear and nice enough not to point it out—a far cry from the smugness with which he'd carried himself for months after that prank war, which he'd won by default since Dean's riposte had been derailed and he'd been too preoccupied to think of something else at the time.

"Come on, let's not make them wait for too long," he said, turning to go back outside.

Dean watched him go, lips pursed, remembering.

Planning.

Because this definitely called for a rematch.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [on tumblr](princessniitza.tumblr.com) if you wanna come say hi :)


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